CHAPTER VII.
As morning after morning passed without the arrival of othermysterious boxes of flowers or of significant messages, the Marquisebegan to watch Loris Dumaresque more than was usual with her. He wasthe only one who knew; had he, educated by some spirit of jest, beenthe sender of the blossoms?
And inconsistent as it may appear when one remembers her avowed fearof discovery, yet from the moment that suspicion entered her mind thecharm was gone from the blossoms and the days to follow, and she feltfor the first time a resentment towards Monsieur Incognito.
Her reason told her this was an inevitable consequence, throughresentment forgetfulness would come.
But her heart told her--?
Her presence at the charitable fete held by Madame la General at theHotel Dulac was her first response, in a social way to the invitationsof her Parisian acquaintances. A charity one might support without inany way committing oneself to further social plunges. She expected tofeel shy and strange; she expected to be bored. But since Maman wishedit so much--!
There is nothing so likely to banish shyness as success. The youngMarquise could not but be conscious that she attracted attention,and that the most popular women of the court who had been pleased toshow their patronage by attendance, did not in the least eclipseher own less pretentious self. People besieged Madame Dulac forintroductions, and to her own surprise the debutante found herselfenjoying all the gay nothings, the jests, the bright sentencestossed about her and forming a foundation for compliments delicatelyveiled, and the flattering by word or glance that was as the breathof life to those people of the world.
She was dressed in white of medieval cut. Heavy white silk cord wasknotted about the slender waist and touched the embroidered hem. Thesquare neck had also the simple finish of cord and above it was theone bit of color; a flat necklace of etruscan gold fitted closelyabout the white throat, holding alternate rubies and pearls in theircuriously wrought settings. On one arm was a bracelet of the samedesign; and the linked fillet above her dark hair gleamed, also, withthe red of rubies.
It was the age of tarletan and tinsel, of delicate zephyrs andextremes in butterfly effects. Hoop-skirts were persisted in, despitethe protests of art and reason; so, the serenity of this dress,fitting close as a habit, and falling in soft straight folds with asculpturesque effect, and with the brown-eyed Italian face above it,created a sensation.
Dumaresque watched her graciously accepting homage as a matter ofcourse, and smiled, thinking of his prophecy that she would bemagnificent at twenty-five;--she was so already.
Some women near him commented on the simplicity of her attire.
"Oh, that is without doubt the taste of the dowager; failing toinfluence the politics of the country she consoled herself with anattempt to make a revolution in the fashions of the age."
"And is this sensation to illustrate her ideas?" asked another. "Shehas rather a good manner--the girl--but the dress is a trifletheatrical, suggestive of the pages of tragedies and martyredvirgins."
"Suggestive of the girl Cleopatra before she realized her power,"thought the artist as he passed on. He knew that just those littleremarks stamped her success a certainty, and was pleased accordingly.The dowager had expressed her opinion that Judithe would bury herselfin studies if left to herself, perhaps even go back to the convent. Hefancied a few such hours of adulation as this would change the ideasof any girl of nineteen as to the desirability of convents.
He noticed that the floral bower over which she presided had littleleft now but the ferns and green things; she had been adding money tothe hospital fund. Once he noticed the blossoms left in charge of heraides while she entered the hall room on the arm of the mostdistinguished official present, and later, on that of one of thedowager's oldest friends. She talked with, and sold roses to theyounger courtiers at exorbitant prices, but it was only the men ofyears and honors whom she walked beside.
Madame Dulac and Dumaresque exchanged glances of approval; as apossible general in the social field of the future, she had commencedwith the tactics of absolute genius. Dumaresque wondered if sherealized her own cleverness, or if it was because she honestly likedbest to talk or listen to the men of years, experience, and undoubtedhonors.
Mrs. McVeigh was there, radiant as Aurore and with eyes so bright onewould not fancy them bathed in tears so lately, or the smooth brow ascontaining a single anxious motherly thought. But the Marquise havingheard that story of the son, wondered as she looked at her if thehandsome mother had not many an anxious thought the world neversuspected.
She was laughing frankly to the Marquise over the future just read inher palm by a picturesque Egyptian, who was one of the novelties addedto Madame Dulac's list for the night.
Nothing less than an adoring husband had been promised her, and withthe exception of a few shadowed years, not a cloud larger than thehand of a man was to cross the sky of her destiny.
"I am wishing Kenneth had come--my son, you know. Something hasdetained him. I certainly would have liked him to hear that promise ofa step-father. Our Southern men are not devoid of jealousy--even oftheir mothers."
Then she passed on, a glory of azure and silver, and the Marquise felta sense of satisfaction that the son had not come; the prejudice shefelt against that unabashed American would make his presence the oneblack cloud across the evening.
While she was thinking of him the party about her separated, and shetook advantage of a moment alone to slip the alcove back of theevergreens. It seemed the one nook unappropriated by the glitteringmasses of people whose voices, near and far, suggested the murmur ofbees to her as she viewed it from her shadowy retreat, while coveredfrom sight herself.
The moonlight was shining through the window of the little alcovescreened by the tall palms. The music of a tender waltz movementdrifted softly across to her and made perfect her little retreat. Shewas conscious that it had all been wonderfully and unexpectedlyperfect; the success, the adulation, had given her a new definitefaith in herself. How Maman would have enjoyed it. Maman, who wouldwant every little detail of the pleasant things said and done. Shewondered if it was yet too early to depart, she might reach homebefore the dowager slept, and tell her all the glories of it.
So thinking, she turned to enter again the glare of light to findMadame Dulac, or Madame Blanc, who had accompanied her, to tell them.
But another hand pushed aside the curtain of silk and the droopingfronds of gigantic fern. Looking up she saw a tall, young man, wearinga dark blue uniform, who bowed with grace, and stood aside that shemight pass if she chose. He showed no recognition, and there was thepause of an instant. She could feel the color leave her face. Then,with an effort, she raised her eyes, and tried to speak carelessly,but the voice was little more than a whisper, in which she said:
"You!"
His face brightened and grew warm. The tone itself told more than sheknew; a man would be stupid who could not read it, and this one,though youthful, did not look stupid.
"Madame Unknown," he murmured, in the voice she had not been able toforget, "I am not so lost here as at Fontainbleau. May I ask some oneto present me to your notice?"
At that she smiled, and the smile was contagious.
"You may not," she replied frankly, recovering herself, and assuming atone of lightness to conquer the fluttering in her throat. "The listof names I have had to remember this evening is most formidable,another one would make the last feather here," and she tapped herforehead significantly. "I was just about to flee from it all when--"
She hesitated and looked about her in an uncertain way. He at onceplaced a chair for her. She allowed her hand to rest on the back of itas if undecided.
"You will not be so unkind?" he said; and his words held a plea. Sheanswered it by seating herself.
"Well?"
At the interrogation he smiled.
"Will you not allow me, Madame, to introduce myself?"
"But, Monsieur Incognito, consider; I have remembered you best becauseyou
have not done so; it was a novelty. But all those people whosenames were spoken to me this evening--pouf!" and she blew a featheryspray of fern from her palms, "they have all drifted into oblivionlike that. Do you wish, then, to be presented and--to follow them?"
"I refuse to follow them there--from you."
His tones were so low, so even, so ardent, that she looked startledand drew her breath quickly.
"You are bold, Monsieur," and though she strove to speak haughtily shewas too much of a girl to be severe when her eyes met his.
"Why not?" he asked, growing bolder as she grew more timid. "You grantme one moment out of your life; then you mean to close the gatesagainst me--if you can. In that brief time I must condense all thatanother man should take months to say to you. I have been speaking toyou daily, however, for six weeks and--"
"Monsieur! Six weeks?"
"Every day," he assented, smiling down at her. "Of course you did nothear me. I was very confidential about it. I even tried to stop itentirely when I was allowed to believe that Mademoiselle was Madame."
"But it is quite true--she is Madame."
"Certainly; yet you let me think--well, I forgive you for it now,since I have found you again."
"Monsieur!"--she half arose.
"Will Mademoiselle have her fortune told?" asked a voice beside them,and the beringed Egyptian pushed aside the palms, "or Monsieur,perhaps?"
"Both of us," he assented with eagerness; "that is, if Mademoisellechooses." He dropped two pieces of gold in the beaded purse held out."Come," he half whispered to the Marquise, "let me see if oblivion isreally the doom fate reads against me."
She half put out her hand, thinking that after all it was only a partof the games of the night--the little amusements with which purseswere filled for charity; then some sudden after thought made her drawit back.
"You fear the decision?" he asked.
She did not fear the decision he meant, but she did fear--
"No, Monsieur, I am not afraid. Oh, yes; she may read my palm, it isall a jest, of course."
The Egyptian held the man's hand at which she had not yet glanced. Shetook the hand of the Marquise.
"Pardon, Madame, it is no jest, it is a science," she said briefly,and holding their hands, glanced from one to the other.
"Firm hands, strong hands, both," she said, and then bent over that ofthe Marquise; as she did so the expression of casual interest fadedfrom her face; she slowly lifted her head and met the gaze of theowner.
"Well, well? Am I to commit murders?" she asked; but her smile was anuneasy one; the gaze of the Egyptian made her shrink.
"Not with your own hand," said the woman, slowly studying thewell-marked palm; "but you will live for awhile surrounded by deathand danger. You will hate, and suffer for the hate you feel. You willlove, and die for the love you will not take--you--"
But the Marquise drew her hand away petulantly.
"Oh! I am to die of love, then?--I!" and her light laugh wasdisdainful. "That is quite enough of the fates for one evening;" sheregarded the pink palm doubtfully. "See, Monsieur, it does not look soterrible; yet it contains all those horrors."
"Naturally it would not contain them," said the Egyptian. "You willforce yourself to meet what you call the horrors. You will sacrificeyourself. You will meet the worst as the women of '93 ascended theguillotine--laughing."
"Ah, what pictures! Monsieur, I wish you a better fortune."
"Than to die of love?" he asked, and met her eyes; "that were easierthan to live without it."
"Chut!--you speak like the cavalier of a romance."
"I feel like one," he confessed, "and it rests on your mercy whetherthe romance has a happy ending."
She flashed one admonishing glance at him and towards the woman whobent over his hand.
"Oh, she does not comprehend the English," he assured her; "and if shedoes she will only hear the echo of what she reads in my hand."
"Proceed," said the Marquise to the Egyptian, "we wait to hear thelist of Monsieur's romances."
"You will live by the sword, but not die by the sword," said thewoman. "You will have one great passion in your life. Twice the womanwill come in your path. The first time you will cross the seas to her,the second time she comes to you--and--ah!--"
She reached again for the hand of the Marquise and compared them. Thetwo young people looked, not at her, but at each other.
In the eyes of the Marquise was a certain petulant rebellion, and inhis the appealing, the assuring, the ardent gaze that met and answeredher.
"It is peculiar--this," continued the woman. "I have never seenanything like it before; the same mark, the same, Mademoiselle,Monsieur; you will each know tragedies in your experience, and thelives are linked together."
"No!"--and again the Marquise drew her hand away. "It is no longeramusing," she remarked in English, "when those people think it theirduty to pair couples off like animals in the ark."
Her face had flushed, though she tried to look indifferent. TheEgyptian had stepped back and was regarding her curiously.
"Do not cross the seas, Mademoiselle; all of content will be leftbehind you."
"Wait," and the Monsieur Incognito put out his hand. "You call thelady 'Mademoiselle,' but your guess has not been good;" and he pointedto a plain ring on the hand of the Marquise.
"I call her Mademoiselle because she never has been a wife, and--shenever will be a wife. There are marriages without wedding rings, andthere are wedding rings without marriages; pardon!--" and passingbetween the ferns and palms she was gone.
"That is true!" half whispered the Marquise, looking up at him; "herwords almost frighten me."
"They need not," and the caress in his eyes made her drop her own;"all your world of Paris knows the romance of your marriage. You aremore of a celebrity than you may imagine; my knowledge of that mademe fear to approach you here."
"The fear did not last long," and she laughed, the coquetry of the sexagain uppermost. "For how many seconds did you tremble on thethreshold?"
"Long enough to avoid any friends who had planned to present me."
"And why?"
"Lest it might offend to have the person thrust on you whom you wouldnot know among less ceremonious surroundings."
"Yet you came alone?"
"I could not help that, I _had_ to see you, even though you refused torecognize me; I had to see you. Did I not prophecy there in the woodthat we should meet again? Even the flowers you gave me I--"
"Monsieur, no more!" and she rose from the chair with a certaindecision. "It was a thoughtless, childish farce played there atFontainbleau. But--it is over. I--I have felt humiliated by thatepisode, Monsieur. Young ladies in France do not converse withstrangers. Pray go back to England and forget that you found one soindiscreet--oh! I know what you would say, Monsieur," as he was aboutto speak. "I know many of these ladies of the court would only laughover such an episode--it would be but a part of their amusements forthe day; but I, I do not belong to the court or their fashions. I amonly ashamed, and ask that you forget it. I would not want any one tothink--I mean that I--"
She had commenced so bravely with her wise, firm little speech, but atthe finale she wavered and broke down miserably.
"Don't!"--he broke in as a tear fell on the fan she held; "you makeme feel like a brute who has persecuted you; don't cry. Come here tothe window; listen to me. I--I loved you that first day; you justlooked at me, spoke to me and it was all over with me. I can't undoit. I can go away, and I _will_, rather than make you unhappy; but Ican't forget you. I have never forgotten you for an hour. That waswhy. Oh, I know it is the wildest, maddest, most unpardonable thing Iam saying to you. Your friends would want to call me out and shoot mefor it, and I shall be happy to give them the chance," he added,grimly. "But don't, for Heaven's sake, think that my memory of youwould be less than respectful. Why, I--I adore you. I am telling it toyou like a fool, but I only ask you to not laugh until I am out ofhearing. I--will go now--and do not even ask
your forgiveness,because--well I can't honestly say I am sorry."
Sorry! She thought of those days when she had wakened to a new worldbecause his eyes and his voice haunted her; she heard him acknowledgethe same power, and he spoke of forgiveness as though convicted of afault. Well, she had not been able to prevent the same fault, so, howdared she blame him? He need not know, of course, how well she hadremembered; yet she might surely be a little kind for all that.
"Monsieur Incognito!"
Her voice had an imperious tone; she remembered she must not be tookind. He was already among the palms, in the full light of the salon,and he was boy enough for all the color to leave his face as he heardthe low command. She had heard him declare his devotion, yet she hadrecalled him.
"Madame," he said, and stood stubbornly the width of the alcove fromher, though he was conscious of all tender words rushing to his lips.She was so adorable; a woman in mentality, but the veriest girl as tothe emotions his words had awakened.
"Monsieur," she said, without looking at him, "I do not truly believeyou meant to offend me; therefore I have nothing to forgive."
"You angel!" he half whispered, but she heard him.
"No, I am not that," and she flashed a quick glance at him, "only Ithink I comprehend you, and to comprehend is to forgive, is it not?I--I cannot listen to the--affection you speak of. Love and marriageare not for me. Did not the Egyptian say it? Yes; that was quite true.But I can shake hands in good-bye, Monsieur Incognito. Your Englishpeople always do that, eh? Well, so will I."
She held out her hand; he took it in both his own and his lips touchedit.
"No! no!" she said softly, and shook her head; "that is not an Englishcustom." He lifted his head and looked at her.
"Why do you call me English?" he asked, and she smiled, glad to breakthat tenseness of feeling by some commonplace.
"It was very simple, Monsieur; first it was the make of your hat,I read the name of the maker in the crown that day in the park;then you spoke English; you said you had just arrived from England;and the English are so certain to get lost unless they go ingroups--therefore!"
She had enumerated all those reasons on her white fingers. She glancedat him, with an adorable smile as a finale, so confident she hadproven her case.
"And you French have no fondness for the English people," he saidslowly, looking at her. "I wear an American uniform tonight; suppose Iam an American? I am tempted to disobey and tell you who I am, inhopes you will not send me into exile quite so soon."
"No, no, _no_!" she breathed hurriedly. "You must go; and you mustremain Monsieur Incognito; thus it will be only a comedy, a morsel ofromance. But if I knew you well--ah! I do not know what it would bethen. I am afraid to think. Yes, I confess it, Monsieur, you make meafraid. I tell myself you are a foreign ogre, yet when you speak tome--ah!"
She put out her hands as he came close. But he knelt at her feet,kissing her hands, her wrists, the folds of her dress, then lifted hisface glowing, ardent, to her own.
"I shall make you love me some day," he whispered; "not now, perhaps,but some day."
She stared at him without a word. She had received proposals ofmarriage, dignified, ceremonious affairs submitted to her by thedowager, but from this stranger came the first avowal of love she hadever listened to. A stranger; yet he held her hand; she felt herselfdrawn towards him by a force she could not combat. Her other arm wasover the back of a chair, slowly she lifted it, then he felt her handtouch his hair and the touch was a caress.
"My queen!"
"Co--now," she said so lowly. It was almost a whisper. He arose,pressed her hand to his lips and turned away, when a woman's voicespoke among the palms:
"Did you say in this corner, Madame? I have not found him; Kenneth!"
"It is my mother," he said softly, and was about to draw back thealcove draperies when the Marquise took a step towards him, staringstrangely into his face.
"_Your Mother!_" and her tones expressed only doubt and dread. "No,no! Why, I--I know the voice; it is Madame McVeigh; she calledKenneth, her son--"
He smiled an affirmative.
"Yes; you will forgive me for having my name spoken to you after all?But there seems to be no help for it. So you see I am not Englishdespite the hat, and my name is Kenneth McVeigh."
His smile changed to quick concern as he noticed the strange look onher face, and the swaying movement towards the chair. He put out hishand, but she threw herself back from him with a shuddering movementof repulsion.
And a moment later the palms parted beside Mrs. McVeigh, and she wasstartled at sight of her son's face.
"Kenneth! Why, what is wrong?"
"A lady has fainted there in the alcove," he said, in a voice whichsounded strange to her; "will you go to her?"
"Fainted? Why, Kenneth!--"
"Yes; I think it is the Marquise de Caron."
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